Silver Dragon Knight

Silver Dragon Knight
Pheonix DeLoures
Prologue

This moment would be etched into his mind clearly for the rest of his life. His first real test of battle, his chance to prove that he was more than just another soldier, he was a warrior; he was a Knight. Failure is not an option on the battlefield.

The angry red sun hung low in the sky, while the blazing orange sun settled onto the distant mountains, casting the castle’s walls in relief. The two moons sat next to each other, blue behind the clouds, barely visible in contrast with the suns.

Rivulets of sweat ran down his face, the salty flavor on his lips. He’d trained for years within the castle walls, hundreds of mock battles, hundreds of tests. Hours and hours of the day spent perfecting skills and technique. He would be the greatest swordsman ever known.

His sword carved cleanly through the sinewy flesh of yet another of the tiger humanoids, known as Tigren. The silver blade was stained crimson, flecks of blood spraying outward as Kirin whirled around to meet the claws of another Tigren, desperate to rend his flesh. The sword met honed claws with a ring of metal, the ferocity of the attack throwing Kirin backwards with a slight stumble. He regained his balance just in time to throw his sword up again, once more clashing against the violently bloodied claws of the feline humanoid.

Feeling himself losing ground, Kirin braced his feet, digging his boots into the dirt beneath him, and pushed back with an abrupt thrust. His sword slipped between the outstretched claws, and the Tigren died with a look of shock on its face.

Another swiftly attacked him, and again he struck, his dark tan skin glistening as tiny red flecks of Tigren blood splattered back onto him as his sword flashed, again and again, its blade like silver lightning. His face was twisted in concentration and battle lust as he whirled about to face his oncoming opponents and came to face a nearly empty battlefield.

Looking around quickly, Kirin figured he had enough time to at least move his long, dark hair from his face. Limp and stuck to his face because of the heat, he pulled it back, and turned to look over the battlefield. He stood atop a small hill, not large enough to provide an advantage, but enough to grant a good vantage point, he scanned the battle with dark, impassive eyes.

The fighting seemed to be dwindling down, the carcasses of Tigren and of his fellow knights littered around, bodies skewered with swords and claws, bloody rents left in exposed flesh. Armor and weapons lay discarded where they’d fallen, shields broken or cracked. The air smelled distinctly of blood, the coppery flavor on the lips of the survivors.

Then, with a keening cry, an animal and guttural sound, the remaining Tigren turned and fled from battle, humans chasing after them, tossing spears, arrows zipping towards their retreating backs.

The horn sounded, and the remaining fighters gathered atop the hill, next to the main gate into the castle, where their Lord General stood waiting. All the soldiers stood at attention as their Lord General gave a victory cry, and then they raised their swords in a salute of steel.